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‘… Police have identified the victim as Kenneth Kingston. Dr Kingston, bursar at Linton College, a church warden in Headington, husband and father of two, was found dead on Sunday night by a late-night swimmer. The body had been left in a punt moored at the popular Parson’s Pleasure swimming spot in the park. The swimmer who came across the body raised the alarm with passing local celebrity author-, Jago Jackson, author of Wild Swim, who was jogging in the vicinity.’
The name caught Michael’s attention and he looked up from his diced melon. Jago Jackson. He couldn’t seem to escape his old student. Jackson’s profile had been growing since he had appeared in a documentary and published a couple of books on the joys of catching Weil’s disease in the dubious rivers and ponds of the Thames Valley. The man hadn’t mentioned that? Why was he not surprised?
The reporter cut to an interview they’d done in the author’s home. He’d got some cushy rooms in Linton College, with a view of the river. Copies of his books were arranged casually beside him, like he’d just put them down when surprised by a call from the press. Poseur.
‘Dr Jackson, you were jogging in the park on the night of the murder?’
‘Oh yes.’ Jago hadn’t aged well – already had lines on his forehead. Kept his curls though. Michael had rather thought he’d lose them by thirty as he always had a high hairline. ‘I was following my usual route. Just a quick five k before it gets too dark.’
Michael had never liked the guy as a student – too arrogant by far – and he saw that he hadn’t grown out of it.
‘And then what happened?’
‘I heard a woman screaming, and I thought, well, you know, that someone must be attacking her? So I ran towards the noise.’
‘You ran towards her?’ The implication was that Jago had been so brave.
‘Well, yeah.’ He managed a sheepish look from under his fringe that reminded Michael of Princess Diana. Bashful calculation. ‘I find this woman, er, a naked woman, dragging a punt onto the bank. I gathered from what she said that she’d been skinny dipping and stumbled over the body. I went over to comfort her –’ I bet you did, mate ‘– we pulled it ashore and I called the police. That was the end of my involvement.’
‘You didn’t know at that time that you knew the victim?’
‘I only had a few dealings with Dr Kingston but I know enough to say that he’s a great loss to the college.’
‘Have you anything else you’d like to say?’
‘Yeah, thanks. I’ve swum in the river many times before and I’ve never heard of anything like this happening. People shouldn’t give up the chance to discover the joys of wild swimming just because of one random and tragic death.’
The piece cut back to the studio and the anchor filled in a few more details about the victim. Michael’s suspicious mind thought that someone so blameless – churchwarden? – must have been hiding some dirty secrets. Else how would he have ended up dead in a boat?
Another familiar face came on screen. DI George, the policeman he’d met at Hendon earlier in the year. He’d come across as far more intelligent than the average senior officer, but so buttoned up that it was hard to know what was going on inside. He gardened like it was his religion, his superintendent told Michael.
‘We are appealing to anyone who saw Dr Kingston on the night of the murder. Dr Kingston had been called away to a late meeting at college. We believe he was lured to the college boathouse. There he was attacked. Robbery is a possible motive as none of his personal possessions have been recovered despite the best efforts of our divers searching the riverbed.’
A reporter got in a question, interrupting the statement. ‘What personal effects might the public be on the lookout for?’
‘Dr Kingston was carrying a black messenger bag containing a laptop, wallet, keys and papers. He was wearing dark grey chinos, white shirt and no jacket. His shoes were black leather slip-ons. He also had a plain gold band wedding ring and a FitBit style watch on a black strap.’
When George had said no possessions, he really had meant none. The poor sod must’ve been stripped to the skin. A sex crime? Had the call in to work been a lie to disguise the fact he was meeting a lover? Maybe he had been a closet homosexual? He wouldn’t be the first.
Michael had seen enough. He turned George off and put the bowl and chopping board in the dishwasher. He was aiming to go down to the end of the garden and back but, before he could attempt this, the cat-flap rattled and Colette appeared. She’d been off her food recently and he suspected some other neighbour was feeding her. In response, he’d improved his offer and moved on to an expensive tinned variety rather than kibble. It seemed to have won her back.
‘Been having fun?’ he asked as he loaded up her dish. She now ate on the counter as it saved him tripping over her bowl on the floor.
She gave a purr and dived in, gulping it down as if she feared he’d snatch it away from her. Emma, who got the cat for him shortly before she died, would’ve told him off for indulging her; Jessica would just laugh and tease him that he was an old softie.
As he stroked Colette, he realised that he was missing Jessica. He always missed Emma, of course, but she was far out of reach now. Passed away six years or more. But Jessica was still very much alive. He missed her presence in his life; he was missing her today as a friend. She had come through for him when it counted and she had kept in touch during his recovery, as well as looked after Colette for him. She was living with her undertaker boyfriend now – strange bloke, alternative, he couldn’t see that lasting – but Drew wasn’t the jealous kind. Michael decided to send her a text, just to touch base. Not because he was crushed by a feeling of loneliness. No, not that.
Michael, you’re such a fraud.
His twenty steps could wait. He’d message her now.
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